Queen of Games II: Bloodaxe
by YoukoKitsune
Summary: In the year 1560, the residents of the Palace of Whitehall are menaced by a ghostly barbarian warrior, and it falls to Gwendolyn Blackwood, the Duellist Royal, to step up to the challenge and face this threat from beyond the grave.


**BLOODAXE**

A _Queen of Games_ adventure by

Scott D. Harris & Hikari

**Chapter 1: "Caught in the Mist of Malice"**

It was the summer of our Lord, 1560. In Southampton, a mighty galleon bobbed lazily at the docks, the sunlight glistening off her brilliant black side, trimmed with glorious ivory white and emerald green. Her name, engraved along either side of her bow, was _The Relinquished_. The galleon's captain, Sir Maxwell Wyvern, stood watching the sky with an air of concern, brows furrowed atop his azure eyes. He had just returned from his latest voyage to the Far East, a region of great import and fascination to him, and had been looking forward to some time with his familiars before planning his next adventure, but all he felt as he observed the heavens was a sort of nervous tugging in the depths of his mind.

"You see somethin', sir?" asked his First Mate, a dark-skinned man called Hardwick who was a veritable wall of muscle.

"Sort of," replied the renowned traveller and games-master. "Not physically, mind you, but I can feel something in the air. Ever have moments like that, Mr Hardwick?"

Hardwick considered this. He had been with Wyvern since his first job at sea and was used to the times when he became introverted and philosophical.

"I suppose so," he spoke carefully, "when my wife…"

"Yes, I'm sure you have," Sir Maxwell interrupted but not with rudeness. "Something is going to happen in London, and I doubt it is friendly."

XXX

The summer progress had finished, and with the gruesome 'game killings,' apparently over, it was deemed safe for the court to return to the Palace of Whitehall. Robert Cecil – the former royal coach – remained in his fever-riddled condition which occasionally broke for an utterance of, "Seven blackbirds in a tree, count them and see what they be," before he slipped into silence again. Hours had passed since Sir Maxwell's premonition and the land was beneath the cover of night. Oliver Baldrick thought he knew the streets well, having been a messenger for some considerable number of years that gave him cause to run in every direction - and he had gotten lost so many times that finding his way out was like a second nature to him - but tonight there was an element he did not feel accustomed to. All around him was a sea of wispy whiteness, a fog that was so thick it became impossible to determine left from right. He had heard the recent gossip, which brought a sensation of dread to his heart.

"My brother knows this night-watchman," a tavern wench had whispered in his ear, "who says he saw this knight walkin' 'bout in the shadows."

"A knight?" Baldrick had asked. He was a superstitious youth, having been raised by a deeply religious family which made him quite open to the idea of strange and unusual occurrences.

"Full armour an' ev'rything," the wench had gone on, "and Mrs Rawlins, the old girl who works at the fish market, swears she was attacked by a Saxon!"

The story came to the forefront of his brain. The words replayed themselves in his ears like some haunting re-enactment. What was that? Metal clapping? No, no it must have been a manhole cover.

"H-h-hello?" he stammered. _Clank! _Baldrick was off like a shot, but no matter how far and fast he ran, the ghostly warrior sounded like it was just a few steps behind him. Something huge and black flickered out of the corner of his right eye and the messenger skidded to a halt as an axe easily as big as him swung down towards him. Baldrick screamed and rolled to the side, moving at a half standing crawl as the blade embedded itself in the stone street. Sparks of white-gold heat spat out of the gash it left, burning the backs of his legs. Covering his eyes with his hands, he felt the air suddenly grow cleaner. He looked around, panting and drawing the oxygen down his windpipe. The mist had gone, as had the sounds of his pursuers, but the three-feet long line scarred into the surface of the road remained, sizzling like a river of molten lava.

XXX

The palace guard had not noticed the mist. Nothing of note had happened, and with nobody to see him he was able to let out a crafty yawn. It was the early hours and dawn was on the approach. The guard was getting ready to hand over his duties to the next man when he heard footsteps pounding along the road towards him. Oliver Baldrick, the simple porter, was barrelling in his direction, eyes wide and hair even more unkempt and sweat-soaked than ever.

"Let me in!" Baldrick cried when the palace guard remarked on the time. "I have to warn everybody! It's a matter of life and death!"

"Can it not wait until morning?" the guard sighed, knowing the youth's penchant for exaggeration.

"JUST LET ME IN YOU DAMN FOOL!" Baldrick screamed.

XXX

Sleeping thoughts unsullied by fear or woe but body dreadfully discomforted by the rivers of sweat which soiled her skin, Queen Elizabeth, recognised by her pale visage and fiery hair in every corner of their illustrious empire, shifted in her bed with gentle kicks and thrusts of her arms, driving the sheets first down towards her knees, and then further to her ankles. Her window was open to its limit, but the air was still and carried no cooling breeze to relieve her perspiring form.

Therefore it stands to be a logical question; with no wind to carry it forth, why was the coalesced fog worming its way into her chambers with such liquid swiftness?

She awoke to the sound of – what was that? Horses? The clash of metal on, dare she say it, mortal skin? She heard shouts of, "ha!" and frightful, blood-choked voices screaming of victory, of the slaying of men and the taking of women. Then there came the distinct sound of a heavy weight slicing the sound barrier. She screamed and rolled forward with all her might. The bed gave way under her as the weighty axe splintered it with the ease of a knife through bread. The Queen was tossed into the air and was deposited unceremoniously on her rump. Tears streaking her face, she watched as the obsidian blade was lifted up by only the vaguest shape of a hand easily bigger than her head. Oh, how many times had she dodged this fate in the past at the expense of her treacherous sister? Were all her hardships simply for this? To see her death at the hands of some marauding phantasm?

_O, God! O, God!_ She could smell the brimstone on its breath, see the rabid glow of its beady, hungry eyes.

"Your Majesty!" the muffled calls of two women reached her ears as they thundered down the hall towards her. The giant entity hissed its disgust and, just as suddenly as it arrived, it was gone, back into the dark night which birthed it. The double-doors of the bedroom were flung open as her close confidants and ladies-in-waiting, Lady Liza Townsend and youthful Lady Gwendolyn Blackwood, rushed to her aid. As Liza held the whimpering monarch, Gwendolyn curiously held out her oil lamp towards the bed and gawped at the damage. Lumps of wood and feathers from her cushions littered the vicinity, and the blade that split the bed had also left its mark deep in the floor beneath it.

Gwendolyn furrowed her brow and touched her free hand to the ancient, sharp-cornered pendant hidden beneath her nightshirt. Somehow the way it poked her skin was comforting, its way of letting her know that the power it provided was never far away, no matter what devils arose to bewitch them.

XXX

Walsingham had missed the expansive wine cellar of Whitehall. It served as an excellent place of discussion on the days he felt his office was being spied upon (the easy access to such fine booze was a positive point as well). Now, five hours since Oliver Baldrick's encounter with unearthly forces and four since the Queen's (though of this latter one he remained, for the moment, unaware), he and his new confidante – one Robert Dudley, Master of the Horse – were discussing what had transpired. The dogsbody had been jabbering about some kind of monster in the fog that had almost sliced him in twain with a gigantic battle-axe. He also mentioned the smell of blood and mead, which was almost overpowering.

"I've had him taken to the infirmary," said the spymaster before taking a sip from his cup.

"I've also taken measures to ensure Her Majesty is protected," said Dudley. "Guards have been covertly stationed below her window at all times, and my apprentice Jethro is to keep her and the ladies-in-waiting company whenever possible. Nobody outside our small group is permitted to meet with her until I say otherwise."

"Does she actually know about all this business?" asked Walsingham.

"Not a bit of it," Dudley shook his head. "If word of this frankly preposterous act of ignorance and superstition reaches her, we will find ourselves relocated to Hatfield permanently."

"Then let's hope it doesn't," Walsingham frowned. "I'm not sure about you but I like my quarters here at Whitehall. They're bigger. You know I was sleeping in a pair of converted confessionals up there? Absolutely inhumane, I tell you! It was so cramped that I banged my head on my desk every single morning! And the ants! By God, you couldn't stop the blighters from getting in!"

He lifted a glass of red to his lips and drank heartily, to which Dudley responded by crinkling his nose and saying, "Steady on, Francis! It's not even mid-morning yet and you're already quaffing that stuff? You must be the worst kind of addict!"

"Oh, boil your head or share a bottle with me, Dudders!" Walsingham shot back. "It's never a bad time for a man to appreciate good drink!"

XXX

Sunlight streamed through the open window of the sitting room in the palace's eastern wing, shaped by the wide curtains into a sort of hourglass across the dark carpet, making it exceedingly hot within, like a small slice of the tropics right there in the room with the gathered occupants. The Queen, once more in level spirits, sat quietly in the biggest and grandest chair, in the shade which the heat could not reach. Attended by Liza, she was reading a personal copy of the latest manuscript drafted by a rising star of the theatre who maintained her as his most trusted critic, whilst they sampled fine bisket-cakes from the palace kitchens. Though the other ladies appeared to be busying themselves with sewing or other such hobbies afforded to women at the time of our story, all attention was in fact focussed upon the two individuals who sat on either side of a small, wooden table, engaged in a rousing game of Alquerques.

A particular lady, Mary, reached out one slender leg and clandestinely prodded one of the players, Jethro Marrack, hard enough in the back to make him jump forward. He drew in a breath and grabbed the sides of the table to steady himself, bringing him almost nose-to-nose with his opponent, Gwendolyn Blackwood, though in spite of his sheepishness she appeared not to notice, her eyes dim and cast off in a distant dream state, reminiscing about the time in the gardens of Hatfield, just he and her, preparing to embrace each other, only for them to be interrupted by the most outrageous of gentlemen. What if their ridiculous, albeit well-intentioned guest, had not broken their tranquillity and given them the opportunity to meet in such fantastical romance? The idea was so inviting.

"Gwendolyn?" spoke the Jethro who existed in her daydreams.

"Hmm…yes?" she asked in the far-off manner of enamoured sensuality.

"It's your move," spoke the Jethro who existed across the table from her. Gwendolyn was wrenched from her reverie to the sound of giggling women, followed shortly by the quiet, almost inaudible growl of Liza's disapproval of such behaviour.

"Do let us know when you're planning your wedding day," murmured Anne in one final act of defiance against etiquette.

"WE ARE NOT COURTING!" Gwendolyn boomed at her, eliciting a little jump and a mouse-like squeak from the offending gloater.

"Are we not?" asked Jethro in a thoughtful fashion.

Gwendolyn looked ready to yell at him as well, but instead remembered the image she was required to maintain and fixed her hair with her hands. "Of course not," she told him civilly.

"We could be…you know…if you fancied it."

"Do you have eternity to spare?"

This witty exchange was interrupted by a knock at the door of the room. Once permission had been granted appropriately, Walsingham and Dudley entered, each man holding his hat respectfully behind his back with one hand and bowing with the free one against his stomach. The Queen's expression was hard. The ladies were silent. Jethro stood to attention by his master's side, likewise saying nothing. The way Elizabeth simply switched from tranquil to authoritative with such precise control scared all but one person, and that one person was herself. Even the famous and revered Sir Douglas MacWood the Duellist Royal, presently watching events unfolding from the ultimate hiding place, was wary of it.

"If I were my father, may God rest his soul," she said, vocalising each syllable with perfect clarity, "you would both be locked in the Tower!" The courtesy was dropped. Now there was only outrage. "How could you two idiots let something so ghastly go zipping about under your very noses? Do either of you realise I almost lost my life last night?"

Walsingham ventured to stammer a brown-nosing response, but a bolder Dudley interrupted, "Your Highness, I pray you elaborate, for the servants refuse to say a word about this business you speak of, and though your charming companions are prone to uncovering gossip, I find it doubtful that they can find out what I or the royal spymaster here cannot."

"Do nightmarish ogres or ghostly mists ring any bells, Robert?" the Queen challenged, unconsciously putting a hand to her neck, her terror still fresh.

"With all due respect," replied Dudley with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I am a sensible man, and refuse to believe childish fairy tales of ghouls, wizards or imps."

Nobody noticed Gwendolyn raise an eyebrow.

"I have already arranged to increase the security around your bedroom," the Master of the Horse went on, "but if you are convinced an assassin, supernatural or not, is after your head, then we need to-"

She cut him off by standing up and stamping her foot once. She took him roughly by the sleeve of his shirt and spoke in dangerously low tones, "If you, the one man whom I thought might believe me, think of me as childish, then you will accompany me to what remains of my chambers and see for yourself." She instructed the rest to remain until her return and promptly excused herself and the poor man behind her. Dudley managed to throw Jethro an assuring wink before he disappeared through the doors.

"He's a dead man," the former stable-hand stated, and everyone else nodded in agreement.

Elizabeth dragged him from the sitting room all the way to her private chambers. There, she pointed at the ruined bed, which had been left until the woodworkers were ready to dispose of and replace it. Dudley could not hide his surprise, but he appeared strong for her, because she was now hugging herself tightly at the memories of the previous night's horrors, of forces from beyond the veil of life and death. She, unlike him, had bared witness to the proof of magic, of sorcerers who battled not with wands but with summoned monsters and the power of imagination so potent they could bend reality around them. She had seen a young man with the eyes of a dæmon who could meet and defeat any obstacle set before him, a fanged titan who could be fatherly and fearsome in a single expression, and even more extraordinary was that she had walked in their world, judged their noble competitions. She knew wonders, but she also knew the painful truth that not all monsters were as servile as theirs. Last night she had seen one who would kill her in cold blood given the chance, without reason, something that was beyond even her cruel and sanguinary heritage.

"If it had not been for Liza and Gwendolyn," she croaked, "I would be dead, Robert." She almost suffocated on her words. "And you do not even believe it happened when the evidence is right there before you!"

"Bess, Bess, Bess," Dudley sighed before taking her into his arms and looking down into her wet, blue eyes, "I believe in what I see, and what I see is a beautiful girl in a lot of danger, who I will protect with my life against any hatchet who'd dare to upset her. We will catch him." She parted her lips to reply, but was silenced by a blissful kiss and her anger was forgotten.


End file.
